


Kiss Your Knuckles

by anorchidisnotaflower



Series: When All Else Fails [4]
Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 09:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14615289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: "And then, like everything before and everything after and everything in between, I let my mouth run ahead of me and spill and spill and spill."A road trip, some words, and old, familiar faces.





	Kiss Your Knuckles

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry for the wait on this installment. This fic took a long time to come up with and to write, but it's finally here. Thank you all so much for your support on all of my _Fight Club_ fics -- it really and truly means a lot to me.
> 
> Note: I don't own "Barbie Girl" by Aqua or "Tainted Love" by Soft Cell.
> 
> Note 2: Title comes from "Twin Size Mattress" by The Front Bottoms.

Tyler blinks at me for a moment like I’ve gone crazy, and that shouldn’t be as funny as it sounds. “You want to _what_?”

I shrug. You heard me right the first time.

He snorts, punching me lightly on the arm. It’s as close as we get to fighting lately, and it almost sickens me to say I miss it. Almost. “Well, I’m just peachy where I am.”

To make his point, he snuggles even closer (Tyler Durden? _Snuggling_?) to my chest, wrapping his arms around my waist in a vice. I laugh, inexplicably.

I’m trying to make a point here, I say, even as he presses his lips to my ribcage.

He raises his eyebrows, but there’s a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

I swat him away when he tries to tug me down. Hey, no, not right now.

He relaxes his hold, but only just. “You’re really serious about this, huh.”

I look away. Yeah, I just, I don’t know. Something different to do, I guess.

He hums, and I feel it vibrate down to my bones. “Aw, why not. Could be fun.”

I grin, feeling the edges grow sharp—a little like his. Good.

I reach for him, and he reaches back, and there’s still something novel about it.

\---

We get up sometime later—a long time later, really, but who’s there to judge us. It’s dark by that point, the lights of the apartment buildings around us dimming out.

Tyler hums as he shrugs his leather jacket on. It’s some eighties jam I half-remember. Maybe he has the other half.

“So,” he starts, razor grin already in place, “how are we getting there?”

Where, I ask. We didn’t plan on a destination.

He shrugs. “Yeah, but we still don’t have a car. Or anything, really. I could always—”

I know exactly what he’s going to say before he does—that old platitude rings through my head. _I know this because Tyler knows this._

We’re not involving your anti-capitalist _cult_ in this. I thought we agreed—

“Not out loud,” he replies, gaze hard. “You just have more faith in me than you should.”

I take a step back. Nails digging into my palm briefly before they release. I watch his eyes flick down, following the action, and I say nothing.

He sighs, running his hand through his hair in one quick motion. “Shit. I meant—shit. I haven’t been talking to them. No one but you, alright? No one else.”

That’s not what I was worried about, I say, and it’s so quiet that I regret ever opening my mouth.

He curses again, but it comes out like a hiss. “I don’t— You really shouldn’t— We’re— ugh.” His hand runs through his hair again, and the gelled spikes in it wilt.

“I’m always going to be,” he says slowly, ever-so-deliberately, “whoever you need me to be. You mean—You’re a lot better than those shitheads I messed around with.”

I feel the tension leave my hands, my shoulders, as slowly as his words. You sure about that.

He laughs, breathy and strained and maybe a little scared. “Yeah.”

I walk over and pull his hand into mine, rubbing circles into each callus. Fine. Just—be honest with me.

“I’m trying,” he says.

With a sudden tug, he pulls me toward the door, and I stumble after him.

“Now,” he says, grin back, “we find ourselves a ride.”

\---

The door clicks shut behind us, and Tyler flops down on the bed. “I’m telling you, hotwiring a car is so much easier than you think.”

I hold up my hands. I have some money, we can afford to rent a car, we do not need to—

The knocking at the door startles both of us into silence. I glance back at him, but he shrugs, and I’d like to think I can tell when he’s lying. ( _Now you can_ , the smallest part of me whispers, and I hasten to shush it.)

Our lovely door doesn’t have a peephole, so I brace myself and open it a crack. I hear her voice before I see her.

“ _C’mon_ , asshole, open the door,” Marla says, barging in like she owns the place.

I glance between the forced-open door and her, standing in the middle of our apartment. ( _When did it become_ our?) A lit cigarette dangles out of her fingers, dangerously close to falling to the ground. Not that it matters with this concrete floor.

What are you doing here, I ask.

She shrugs, turning to face me. “Thought I’d drop by. See how you’re doing.” She casts a disdainful look around, spilling ash on the floor.

“Not exactly five stars, huh,” she says.

We—I mean, I make do. You know how it is.

Her gaze flicks to mine, and I can feel each of its edges. I remember why I liked Marla in the first place—she sees everything.

“He’s… still here, huh?” she asks, glancing behind her like he’ll jump out at any moment.

I don’t want to tell her that he’s lounging on the tiny counter, legs dangling.

Yeah, I say instead.

She doesn’t look at me. “You… doing alright? I thought you got rid of him, or whatever. That whole cheek thing.” I see her make a loose, circular gesture toward her own cheek, and I poke mine reflexively.

I thought I did, I say. I didn’t. We… sorted things out.

She looks back at me and smirks. “Did you fuck him?”

I choke, feeling my face turn bright, bright red, and I can hear his laughter ringing in my ears. What, I try to say, but it comes out strangled.

She laughs, that familiar smoky rasp. “’Course you did. You wanted to.”

Now I remember why I didn’t like Marla—she sees everything.

I open my mouth to reply, but she waves a hand. “Don’t bother. You seem… happy.”

I blink. Marla—

“Save it for the orphans,” she says, brushing past me, smoke following her in a cloud. “I don’t need your pity or your thanks.”

She pauses at the door, hand resting on the doorframe. I take a step forward and reach out as though to do something, but I don’t know what.

She turns to look at me and I come closer, gently pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Thank you, I say.

She doesn’t reply at first, staring up at me, her eyes ringed by thick, black mascara and tired bags and something else.

Then she shoves me back, lightly, with a soft, “douche bag,” and she’s gone, heels clicking unevenly on the ground.

I stare after her for a moment before I close the door.

“Still talking about me behind my back, huh?” Tyler says into the silence. He leans back against the wall, lighting a cigarette between his palms.

I clench my fist—bad habit I keep returning to like a broken record.

Bad habit, I say, and he chuckles.

“Hard to break,” he replies, flicking ashes toward me.

Hey, not on the floor, I say, and everything settles back to the way it was—me pulling him off the counter, him pulling me closer than I expect.

\---

I curse as a small shock zaps my fingers again.

I can tell you’re rolling your eyes, I say over my shoulder.

Tyler puts his hand on the small of my back. “C’mon, lemme do it. You know I’m better at this kind of thing.”

But I started it, I say. And I know what you know—

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Move.”

I sigh, but I move back, handing him the wires. He crouches down in my spot and I take up watch by the passenger door, scanning the empty street for flashing lights.

I hear him curse softly and I smile in spite of myself.

“Shut up,” he says, and I laugh.

Another moment, though, and I see the lights in the dashboard flick on. Suddenly, a high-pitched voice screams out of the speakers, poppy synth backing up her every word. _I’m a Barbie Girl, in a Barbie world—_

It shuts off as Tyler lunges over the dashboard, slamming his hand on the radio dial. I glance around the street, but no lights flick on, no sirens sound in the distance.

“Fuck,” he says, laughing. “That would’ve been stupid.”

Par for our course, I say, and we laugh together, the two merging into one cacophonous sound.

He stands up, brushing off his pants, before opening the driver’s side door. “Alright, who’s ready to—”

Oh no, I say. You are not driving this car.

“What?” he says, brows furrowing. “Why not?”

Last time you drove—

“Last time I drove we entered _oblivion_ ,” he says, grinning. There’s that razor edge, the blade that’s been so often missing since he climbed into bed with me. He’s softened, and I’d almost forgotten… well, everything.

Last time you drove, I say, you left.

It ends softer than I’d like, and he stops short, gazing at me with something unidentifiable. I hate seeing the edge leave his eyes—there’s something so unlike Tyler in it, and it frightens me to no end.

“Not going anywhere this time.” With that he moves around to my side, giving me a nudge. I step aside and, as he climbs in, his lips graze my cheek.

I blink, startled, and he smiles, quick and simple like smoke.

Then he’s in the passenger seat, door closed, and I’m still standing there, hesitant to get in, afraid of what finality means.

\---

I think there’s someone following us, I say.

Tyler starts awake, rubbing at his eyes with his palm. He glances behind us, squinting at the unlabeled black van.

It’s a couple cars back, but I noticed it a while ago. Keeping its distance.

“Doesn’t seem all that threatening to me,” he shrugs, turning back.

I glance over at him, but he’s already settled back into the seat, crossing his arms.

I frown. Could it be—

“No,” he says, eyes falling closed. “I told you already. No contact.”

I look back at the rearview mirror, and the van is still there. Further back, maybe.

“Hey,” he says, and I look over at him. The streetlights on the highway flicker over his face, washing it dull yellow. There’s no color in his silhouette—just light and dark, light and dark.

“Betcha this guy’s just lost,” he smirks. His smile zig-zags in the light.

Really, I say.

“Yeah,” he says, sinking further into the seat. “Thought, ‘hmm, let’s follow these folks. They know where they’re going.’”

Uh-huh.

“But joke’s on him,” he finishes, leaning his head back.

I snort, a soft puff of air. Sure.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he murmurs, already half-asleep himself.

Like I actually sleep, I say, and it comes out just as hushed. He doesn’t reply, whether he’s really asleep or just pretending.

\---

I pull into the parking lot of the first motel we can find, right at that point before midnight hits.

The front desk is gray with dust, and the owner—an elderly woman with brown teeth and a whiff of ancient perfume about her thin hair—matches the interior. But we get a room key, and besides the grime, there are still people about. The bright red ends of cigarettes light our path to the room, and laughter spills out of cracked doorways.

Tyler shoves my shoulder, and I look over to see him lighting a cigarette, smoke already trailing from the corners of his mouth. He offers it to me and I take it, reminding myself of the familiar ache in my lungs.

“Good, huh,” he says, and I laugh.

“Who ya talking to?” a voice coughs up.

I glance over and a swollen boil of a man glances up at me from his perch on a folding chair, the kind you see on motel balconies with green and white stripes that dig into your thighs.

Me, I ask.

“Yeah, you, and whoever your friend is,” he replies, squinting behind me at nothing.

No one, I say, and I can feel Tyler’s hand curl into a fist.

The man laughs, spit flecking my shirt, my hands. “You crazy people are everywhere now. Seeing things.”

He waves at me when I don’t answer, slapping my leg with his thick, swollen hands. “Get out of here, fuckin’ schizo.”

He keeps cackling behind me as I storm off, cigarette limp and forgotten in my hand.

As soon as I open the motel door, Tyler is there, already inside, pulling me forward by the upper arm.

What the _hell_ , I start to say, but he places a hand over my mouth. The cigarette in my fingers drops to the floor and he crushes it out with his foot.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says, and there’s the glint, the manic edge, but there’s no joy in it.

“We tear apart his room, we make it look like something terrible,” he continues. “Maybe write some nasty messages, leave some compelling evidence.”

Like what, I try to say, but my mouth just moves against his hand, trapped.

“He’s a goddamn _fool_ , pushing you around, and we’re gonna make him pay for it,” he says.

He takes his hand away and pats my cheek, and his palm is wet with my spit.

I swat him away, and he cackles, but it’s still just edge, that precipice, that tip-over into chaos.

We don’t need to do anything, I say, but he’s already wandering off into the room.

“Now we wait,” he says. I’m left there, standing in the open motel door, reminded of something that I can’t quite name.

\---

We sneak out sometime before sunrise. That could be anytime, really, but I never keep track of time anymore, and Tyler’s not exactly known for carrying a watch.

He’s in the lead, hunched over with the hairdryer from our room, ripped out of its socket, clutched in his hand. I grabbed the Bible from the drawer, not sure what it’ll be good for but hoping anyway.

We reach the window of the man’s room and Tyler looks back at me, holding a finger up to his lips. I frown at him.

He shrugs back before popping up, peering into the window and ducking down again.

“He’s not there,” he whispers, and I can feel it brush my ear, setting every nerve alight.

I nod and he grins back before smacking the window with the hairdryer. The glass cracks but doesn’t quite shatter, so I chime in with the Bible. The glass spills inward, glittering on the carpet floor.

We climb in, one after the other, and the room is dark, darker than outside. There’s a faint stench of mold and old, cheap deodorant.

Tyler starts ripping the wallpaper from the walls and I trash the rumpled Queen-sized bed. That should be the first sign something’s off, but we keep going, pulling lamps down and breaking the bulbs and kicking over the TV and stomping on dressers—

“What the fuck are you doin’?” the voice says, a little slurred, from the bathroom doorway.

I look up from the trashed dresser and Tyler looks over from the new holes in the wall.

And right then, right at our most perfect moment, there’s a blur in the corner of my eye and Tyler has a gun to the man’s head and he’s grinning.

“Stay down,” I hear him say, “no noise now, you pathetic asswipe, you sick fuck,” and I can’t move. It feels like watching Tyler in control all those times before, except this time I’m immobile, stuck in place, watching the movie unreel. Not even a player in my own story.

“Pl-please—” the man starts, and Tyler smacks him with the gun, just light enough to keep him awake.

“Shut up and listen,” Tyler says. “You say nothing. You tell no one. You pay for the damages, and you leave.”

He pulls the man’s wallet from his back pocket, taking out the driver’s license I know is there.

“I have your license. I know where you live. I will kill you if you don’t follow our instructions,” he continues.

The man sobs—a choked-off sound. Quieter than Raymond K. Hessel, so, so long ago.

“Now,” Tyler says, and he hits the man’s head again, just hard enough that he slumps over. “We’re done here.”

I can feel movement return to my limbs and I surge forward, grabbing the gun from Tyler and pointing it wildly.

“Hey, don’t—” he starts, but I can feel the anger seeping into my skin, the blood boiling in my hands.

Why didn’t you tell me you had this, I say, words clipped, and gesture with the gun.

“It’s yours,” he replies. He doesn’t look as scared as I want him to be, and I remember last time.

I don’t fucking _care_ , I grit out.

I point to the door. We’re leaving, but this isn’t over.

“Whatever,” he mutters, and we get the hell out. The tires on the car squeal a bit as we leave, and it’s only then I realize I still have the motel key. I toss it out the car window, and even when we’re miles away I can still hear it clatter, clatter, clattering toward the drain.

\---

The sound of gravel crunching under the wheels of the car is a welcome distraction from the tense silence that’s been our companion since we left. I pull over on the side of some highway exit, not much caring where we end up, and I spill out of the car.

Tyler stays where he is, looking bored, as I yank the passenger door open.

Get out, I tell him. Get out of this fucking car right now.

He shrugs but complies, eyeing me.

“You knew what you signed up for,” he says, spreading his arms. “With me.”

I shake the gun at him—not really pointing. Waving.

I thought you, I start, but I shake my head. The nails of my left hand bite into my palm, release.

He notices, of course he _notices_ , and he smirks. “Bad habit?”

The gun is gone from my hands in a moment and it’s just my fist connecting with his jaw, his neck, his ear (again, the old platitude, again the repetition, over and over, _I know this because_ —)

He’s on the ground in a moment and he’s not even putting up a fight. Getting beaten like Lou beat him, getting beaten like I thought _I_ beat him ( _but_ _did you ever really want to?_ ).

He’s laughing and there’s blood on my hands, my shirt, dripping into his mouth, peeled open like a wet cavity.

“We never really start,” he cackles, “and we never really end. Looping over each other like a record.”

Shut up, I yell, but he’s still laughing. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“We never really die,” he says, pulling me close. I can feel every wet breath he takes, hot on my face. “And we were never really born.”

You weren’t, I try, and the smile disappears from his face.

“And you never learn,” he snarls, and then I’m at the receiving end of a blow, two blows, three.

We’re pummeling each other like the first and the last time and every time in between, fists connecting and splitting open. There’s gravel in his hair and there’s a slam as my back hits the car. There’s no sound except for our breathing, the slap of flesh, and it’s sick to think of how we were only yesterday.

_What happens at fight club doesn’t happen in words._

His voice in my head, my voice in his.

And then it’s over, the two of us breathing on the ground, heaving, blood and bones and bruises. The first step to enlightenment.

Now it just feels the way it feels: twisted, sore. A little bit lonely.

\---

You wake up at gas stations.

You wake up at rest stops.

You wake up in bathrooms that look the same wherever you go, tiles off-white and sinks spitting out tap water.

You wake up on sides of road that you don’t recognize. Sides of road that seem all-too-familiar. Trees with branches that remind you of the shadows just outside your apartment window.

You catch snatches of scenery outside the windshield, never quite sure who’s driving and who’s sleeping, who’s moving and who’s sitting still.

You wake up in quick marts that smell like disinfectant and beef jerky, staffed with the same bored teenager sporting the same silver nose ring.

“10.40 please,” they drone, and one of you digs in your pocket for the change. You don’t know what you’re buying, what you’re there for.

You wake up in parking lots. Supermarkets, chain stores. Outlets that you dread the most, their perfectly-tailored clothes mocking you from behind thin glass ( _and didn’t you once know how thin it really was?_ ).

You wake up on highway stretches, expanses of road with no end. In the rearview mirror, you spot a van you think you remember. It turns off at the next exit. No, maybe not the same van.

You wake up in another parking lot, this time at a bar named Stu’s. He’s shaking you, telling you, hey, look, let’s get a drink. Let’s sit down for a while. Let’s take a break. Let’s remember.

Then you’re at a table, stained with old beer and new alike, and he’s smiling at you, and you’re smiling back, and neither of you can remember why you ever stopped.

Your hands are joining across the sticky surface, but they don’t quite fit together like you think they used to ( _did they ever_ ).

He pulls you up by your not-right joined hands and you fumble, stumble to the car, to the nearest motel, to the front desk.

You barely make it through the door before there’s another hand at your waist and lips pressing to that spot right below your jaw that makes you _weak_.

You reciprocate, giving his earlobe a little nick and there’s a soft gasp, and then you’re both fumbling, stumbling backward, pulling at one another like it’ll piece you back together.

Your lips find his and everything slots together.

There’s more, there’s always more, and then there’s nothing.

\---

He’s driving this time and I don’t really have any say in it. We don’t talk much anymore—exchange glances, sure, and switch when the other gets tired. Nothing like before, or before that. Or before that.

He frowns, hands drumming a forgotten tune on the steering wheel.

“Diner coming up on the right,” he says. “Wanna grab a bite?”

I shrug. Sure.

He says, “Cool,” but there’s nothing in it.

We grab a table next to the long, chrome counter, and we order the same thing. Crap bacon, crap eggs, crap toast. Crap, all of it, but at least it’s warm.

There’s a couple of men seated at the counter, and one of them—white-blonde hair reminding me of someone else, someone a long time ago—laughs, a bright sound. Tyler is eyeing him, gaze traveling up and down far too obviously.

I shove his arm. Hey.

He swats me back, eyes drawn to me. “Just checking out the competition.”

I roll my eyes. Sure.

It’s fine, then. We make eye contact across the table, and we eat our eggs, and we leave. It’s all fine.

\---

It’s very quickly not when we reach the next motel. Tyler says he’s going to grab a pack of cigarettes, he saw a machine back by the front desk, and I say, sure, go ahead, I’ll go to the room.

It’s quiet, and I’m able to see one or two stars poking through the thick, gray clouds pooling overhead. Storm tonight, I say, but then I remember he isn’t there.

I spot a couple of men up ahead—no bruises, no sunken eyes, thank goodness—and I go to move around them. One of them reaches out and grasps ahold of my arm, stopping me.

Gentlemen, I say. Excuse me.

“No excuses,” the man replies, and it’s a bright sound. I look up and his hair is glowing. White-blonde.

I don’t have any money, I start.

“We don’t want your fuckin’ money,” another man pipes up, behind me. There’s four of them now, boxing me in.

“You don’t think I saw you?” White-Blonde speaks up again. “Looking me up and down with that _leer_ on your face? You’re a sick fuck.”

“We don’t take too kindly to sick fucks,” another says.

Fellas, I try. I just want to go back to my room. I’ll stay out of your hair.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” White-Blonde snarls.

Then his hand is at my throat, squeezing, and my muscle memory is gone, limbs forgetting what to do.

Lights are blinking at the edge of my vision, bright ones, and I can feel the blood rushing around my head, struggling to find what it’s supposed to do.

Tyler’s there, and I can’t see him, but I still know. He might be yelling, pleading with me to “Let me take over, c’mon, don’t let them do this—”

I try to wave at him, to say don’t, please, but then I’m on the ground, curved inwards, and there’s too many feet, too many fists, too much blood dripping down my jaw—

“Don’t block me out, let me in, you fucking idiot! I can take these guys, c’mon--!”

And then there’s nothing.

\---

“I cannot,” Tyler says, “fucking _believe_ you. You piece of shit.”

My eyes blink once, twice, peel open, and I squint up at him. I try to say hey, but it comes out garbled.

“Shut up,” he says. “Fucking idiot.”

Something touches my face, something soft. Tyler takes his hand back, holding a bloody washcloth.

“Can’t even take care of yourself,” he’s muttering. “Need me to do everything for you.”

I try to laugh, and it’s a painful, slow wheeze. A deflating tire.

“Stop trying to tell me off,” he says, wiping at the other side of my face. “You sound like shit.”

I know, I try to say. I know.

He pulls back, left fist clenching and unclenching. Bad habit.

“You should’ve let me do something,” he says.

“You should’ve let me in,” he says.

“Doesn’t fucking _matter_ that we’ve been fighting,” he says.

“Why’d you block me out?” he asks.

I don’t know, I say, or I try, or I do. I don’t know.

“You don’t know anything,” he murmurs. “Never did.”

We sit, silent, until I speak up.

Truce, I ask him.

He says nothing.

Truce, I ask him again. Please.

He doesn’t look at me.

Truce, Tyler, I ask, one more time.

“Fine,” he replies, and he climbs into bed beside me. His arm carefully wraps around me, trying to avoid every broken rib, and it says more than I deserve.

\---

The next day we're back in the car like nothing happened, save for the seat belt around me that cuts painfully into my fractured ribs. I try not to shift so much, but I can’t get comfortable. Dozing off isn’t in the cards.

Tyler’s driving—“There’s no way you’re gonna fight me on this,” he says, pointing to my arms cradling my chest—and it’s quiet. The hum of the road underneath the car is steady, even.

I reach over to the dashboard, feeling everything broken shift just enough to twinge, and I push the radio dial. I scan through a few stations, a bit of classical and some pop shit, another opera station and—

“Hold on,” Tyler says, holding up a hand. “Keep it here.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. Really.

He glances over at me, and I can see the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Sometimes I feel I’ve got to,” he croons.

Run away, I chime in.

“I’ve got to,” he sings.

Get away from the pain you drive, we belt, Tyler drumming his hands on the wheel. Into the heart of me.

 I laugh, and it’s an unexpected sound, but he joins in, and for once it doesn’t sound too different. For once it works, and the sounds merge, and I feel something like happy for the first time in weeks.

I spot the van in the rearview mirror, and the laughter shrivels on my lips.

It’s back, I say. That van.

Tyler glances in the mirror and scoffs. “C’mon. This again?”

I look at him, really look, and his hands still on the wheel. Tyler.

He asks, “What?”

Neither of us says anything, but my ribs twinge again—maybe anticipating.

“I’m not pulling the car over,” he says, and it’s so quiet it blends in with the road hum, still brimming under the corny synth.

He slams the radio dial, and now there’s nothing between us and each other, no noise save for the road and the car and the van so far behind us.

“You,” he starts.

What about me, I say.

“You have an imaginary friend,” he says, “so why should either of us believe that there’s really a van back there?”

Or that there isn’t, I say.

“You’re so—” He grips the steering wheel, hard, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to yank it sideways, pull us right into the headlights, _you just had a near-life_ —

“Stay with me!” he yells, slapping my arm. The sting barely brings me back.

I’m right here, I say, but I don’t think either of us believes that.

He sighs, looking out one window, the windshield, the opposite window. Restless.

“We had something,” he says. “And you bring us out here, and now I don’t even know what I am. What you are.”

I wanted, I say.

I wanted to, I try again.

I, I say, and that’s all I have.

His hands go back to drumming uncertain rhythms. “Still don’t know, huh.”

That’s why I have you, I whisper. You know what you want.

He laughs, short and choked-off and awful. “No. We’re the same, you and I.”

I look out the window, and suddenly I want to crash this car, to let both of us burn inside it until there’s nothing left to say whether there was one man or two. I want to split every highway open and watch each car fall in, still full. I want to become smoke.

My hand shakes as I pull the gun out of the glove compartment. Everything trembling, inevitably.

He shakes his head. “Think that’s gonna work?”

I stare down at the gun, hefting its weight in my hand.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you listening to me?”

I say nothing.

“Killing me isn’t going to work,” he says, and there’s an edge of desperation in it that I recognize from my own voice.

There are tears staining my cheeks. His hands shake on the steering wheel.

And then, like everything before and everything after and everything in between, I let my mouth run ahead of me and spill and spill and spill.

“Neither did loving you,” I murmur.

And everything breaks open.

\---

There’s a gun in my hand and there’s a steering wheel in my other, and there’s no one in the passenger seat.

No. Wait. I’m in the passenger seat, and I don’t have the gun, but the wheel—

Go back. Stop.

I’m in the back seat, laid out, drifting off underneath warm arms and something burns.

Please. I don’t understand.

There’s a gun in the passenger seat, and I don’t know if it’s empty.

Someone.

A foot is on the gas and a hum blends in with the background.

I can’t.

The van looms in front of me, and I hold my arms out.

Help.

I close my eyes, and the car drifts, drifts, drifts.

\---

I blink up at a face I remember from the beginning. Oblivion. Darkness. Perfect and complete.

Bob, I try to say, but I choke on something.

The face blurs, and there might be a voice.

Bob, it’s you, I say, and I scramble back. Don’t touch me.

I hold my hands up, and the face, Bob’s face, keeps blurring the closer it gets.

Get away from me, I scream, and there’s a singe of smoke in everything.

There are arms, then, pulling mine, and I scream again. Bob, no, please.

I look back, and it’s Marla, cigarette dangling from her lip like last time. She squints at me, and her mouth moves in shapes I don’t recognize.

She tilts her head, and now it’s a doctor, two doctors, three, each head morphing into one another. Get more sleep, they chant. Chew some Valerian root. Don’t talk to him.

Tyler, I sob. Where’s Tyler.

The face shifts, pulling in on itself, and it screams back at me, garbled and sick.

I want Tyler, I whisper. I know what I want. I know what I want.

I’m looking back at myself, and I see nothing but a gaping hole. The hole in my cheek, grown to capacity.

I tip forward, slumping over the edge, and I fall. I don't hit bottom.

\---

They ask a lot of questions. Most about Project Mayhem, which is out of my reach, as far as I know. Some about hotwiring a car. Some about accomplices.

I don’t say much. Hospitals are a difficult place to hold confessions. Broken bones get in the way.

They tell me I was followed. Undercover car, discreet. They tell me I lost control. Spun out.

Some of them have black eyes, broken lips. Scarred hands. Kisses.

They wink at me, and I don’t even try to nod back or argue. I just stare.

Most of them walk away after that. Disappointed, maybe.

Me, I lie there. I listen to my verdict. I say yes, no, or try to. I don’t sleep.

I wait.

And no one comes.


End file.
